


Strange Dreams of Doom

by Loran_Arameri



Category: Marvel 616
Genre: Insomnia, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:20:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27607556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loran_Arameri/pseuds/Loran_Arameri
Summary: It's easy for Stephen to lie to himself during the day, but at night there is no busy work to hide behind. If only there was someone who understood, who could dispel his loneliness...
Relationships: Stephen Strange/Victor von Doom
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	Strange Dreams of Doom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wynnesome](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wynnesome/gifts).



> This work was inspired by wynnesome's [MTH header](https://mthofferings.tumblr.com/image/631672175202533376) and she was also kind enough to beta it. Thank you ❤

Stephen tosses and turns. The moonlight illuminates the room too brightly, but drawing the curtains isn’t an option, not when he knows what can hide in the darkness. The shadows paint symbols on the ceiling, and Stephen clings to the knowledge that this night, too, will end eventually. 

Time flows; it keeps on going, and there is little anyone can do to change that. Few are powerful enough, even less bold enough. Stephen has to count himself among them; another fundamental of the universe he has laid his hands on and pushed. 

The sanctum lays quiet and still. Wong is there, but he knows how not to disturb the world. Something that Stephen still has to learn. The silence makes his own heartbeat sound like footsteps, falling heavily onto stone floors. No one is near. Not at night, not during the day. It’s part of being the Sorcerer Supreme, and Stephen lives with that. It’s not new, but on nights like these, it becomes tangible.

The curtains move with a breeze from the window, billowing into the room, broad and reckless. Did Stephen open a window? Did he not? The moving cloth forms a bulky shadow on the wall. His gaze is drawn to the form against his will, his memory trying to transform, to draw forth, to connect what should best be apart. There is nothing to see. He wills his eyes to close, to let go of whatever he thought he saw or wished to see. There is nothing.

When his heart has quieted down, he opens them again, and the curtain hangs motionless, the shadow gone. Beside his bed stands a robed figure. 

He doesn’t know if it is physical or ethereal, as neither should be possible with the wards that wrap around his bedroom like steel bands. Alarm or at least concern would be the appropriate reaction, but they won’t come. Stephen is intrigued—anything is better than the bone-crushing vacuum of his insomnia—and a strange calm settles itself upon him. It feels fitting for this night, this apparition.

Whatever it is, it doesn’t attack, doesn’t even move, so maybe it is not held off by wards because it carries no ill will. Stephen doesn’t move either but slowly takes in what he sees before him with his physical eyes, letting his spells rest. It looks human, like a man, wearing a dark robe, loose shirt and pants underneath. The only areas reflecting some light are its—his neck and small parts of his face; the rest of it is covered by something like a dark mask, seeming molded to his features. Despite the oddity, he looks down his nose at Stephen with his back straight and the bearing of a king.

With a sigh, he turns his head to the side. The movement brings him into the light from the window, revealing the mask as several layers of bandages, wrapped tightly all around and over his face. More and more, Stephen’s certainty grows that his apparition is human, nothing more. Nothing less.

The shadows of Stephen’s bedroom lap at the robe of his visitor, and with that surreal clarity that one has only in the middle of the night, without any proof or logic, he knows that this man is also haunted by the shadows of his deeds and omissions. 

Is this why he is here for Stephen? Does the recognition run both ways? 

The man turns, soft soles whispering against the wood of the floor, as if he is preparing to step away, leaving Stephen once more to the late-night wrestling with his own mind. Stephen isn’t ready—before the man can go, Stephen reaches out, lays a hand on his forearm. The cloth is soft to the touch, and the man’s body heat radiates through it. He doesn’t turn back, but neither does he remove himself further. They remain in this balance. Stephen thinks that he could get up, that he could take a look under the bandages, that he could dispel this one secret, but he stays in his bed. Some mysteries are worth keeping.

Stephen’s specter finally looks at him, the eye contact jolting through him like a shot of adrenalin right to the heart. It takes his breath away, leaving him paralyzed where he lies, while he wants nothing more than to clutch that arm harder, hold tighter, use both hands to hold onto this connection. 

The man opens his mouth to speak, and Stephen knows this voice on the first syllable, hears, sees, but doesn’t understand. It is the voice of Victor von Doom, standing right there without his armor, the remnants of his face wrapped in bandages. It is a sight that Stephen has never been privy to, one he is sure he would never be granted if von Doom held the decision. Belatedly, the words register. “What am I doing here, Strange?”

Stephen’s hand falls away, and sucking in a breath, he wakes. The room is empty, the curtain being blown by the wind, and through the window, the greying sky makes the shadows retreat.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments sustain me ^.^


End file.
